Alyse stifled a sigh. There it is again, his unshakeable belief in Matilda’s destiny. She said, ‘I would ask you something.’
‘I know,’ he grinned, ‘stop pacing.’
She shook her head. ‘No, sweet, do as you please. But tell me this. You are prepared to see Stephen again—’
‘In three days, if he does not break his silence before then.’
‘—and risk his anger, even imprisonment, for the sake of the empress.’
‘You just told me Stephen will emulate his uncle.’
‘I said he may. It’s something Varan can find out for us. But you would rather go yourself, and risk your own safety for Matilda’s sake.’
‘For her, and for us. I swore fealty to her—’
‘Yes, I know, three times.’
‘Then you know all of it. I was King Henry’s man when he was alive, and now that he is dead my loyalties devolve upon his daughter. It’s very simple. I take no special pride in saying I honour my word.’
‘God knows,’ she said gently, ‘no one would doubt it. So, very simply, you do this for her.’
‘For the woman who will be queen here one day.’
‘And if I asked you not to put yourself at risk; if I asked you to stay clear of Stephen, would you do it?’
‘Are you asking?’
‘I’m setting myself in the balance,’ she said. ‘I want to see who weighs heavier with you, she or I.’
He looked down at her for a moment. Then he smoothed the grey hair on the nape of his neck and replied, ‘Very well, my lady. I will sit it out.’
Suddenly close to tears, she said, ‘Thank you. It’s a pity, though, that you had to hesitate so long.’
* * *
While the dissident barons awaited his reponse, King Stephen assembled one of the greatest armies ever seen in England. By the end of January it was ready, not to crush the rebellious few at Wallingford, or Hereford, or in Baldwin de Redvers’s castle at Exeter, but to halt an invasion of the country by King David of Scotland. This powerful monarch was Empress Matilda’s uncle, and he posed the first serious threat to the English king.
The armies faced each other a few miles north of Durham and, while the troops rehearsed their simple battle tactics, or took shelter from the ceaseless winter drizzle, their commanders sat down to talk.
King David held the honour of Huntingdon, and thus carried the extra title of an English earl. But from the outset he refused to pay homage to Stephen, challenging him to prove that King Henry had named him as his heir. ‘By word and pen,’ David growled. ‘If he’d said it, he’d have made some record of it. And if he could press his seal, he could mouth the words. I want both, or I’ll cut your kingdom at the throat.’
Stephen was confident that the English army, supported by several hundred Flemish mercenaries, could hold the Scots in check, but he could not afford to maintain such a large and expensive force permanently in the north. War had to be averted, particularly when a border conflict would leave the growing number of English defectors free to manoeuvre behind his back.
The kings of England and Scotland haggled for a week, at the end of which King David agreed to surrender the towns he had captured, and to make over the honour of Huntingdon to his son, Prince Henry. As the new Earl of Huntingdon, the young man would pay homage to Stephen and, in return, the English king would grant the prince the additional honours of Carlisle and Doncaster, plus extensive holdings in Cumberland and Westmorland. Henry would accompany Stephen to court where he would be, at one and the same time, an honoured guest and a regal hostage.
Stephen was soon to realise that he had made the second serious mistake of his reign…
Not only had he allowed the Scottish king to get the better of the deal but, by giving over Carlisle, he had deprived one of his most important supporters, the fiery Ranulf of Chester of a cherished inheritance. Ranulf’s father had governed Carlisle, and by rights it should have passed to his son. As soon as he heard what had happened, Ranulf stormed from the court and added his name to the lengthening list of disaffected barons.
He was soon followed by the Archbishop of Canterbury, who found his privileged place at the high table occupied by the Scottish stripling. He, too, swept from the hall, leaving Stephen with the knowledge that for every friend he was making, he was making an enemy.
His closest companion, Brien Fitz Count, was now immured in Wallingford. Miles of Hereford had deserted him, as had Baldwin de Redvers, and a dozen others. They had all been friends once, for they had served together under King Henry. Yet now, within three months of his coronation, they had turned against him.
And why, he raged; because of that accursed woman… widow of the German emperor… King Henry’s daughter… King David’s niece… my own sweet cousin… the arrogant, sharp-spoken, bloodless and beautiful Matilda, may she burn. That is why I have alienated my friends. That is why my throne creaks beneath me. Because we swore a hollow oath, and too many still hear it echo in the darkest recesses of their minds. They are under her spell, as I said. She is the lodestone, and they are drawn like metal flakes to the magnet. But for Christ’s sake! We were terrified of King Henry! We never wanted a woman! We would never have accepted a woman! We were in awe of him, and so we said what we said, to earn his smile. And now he is dead, and I have taken his place, and I want my friends around me, God knows how I want them. So what do they do? They walk out on me. They tell me I am a usurper, and they go and sit in their castles and whistle up the wind that will bring Matilda to England and prepare themselves for the day when they will rise against me. It is not enough that they are flakes of iron. They want to draw the magnet to them! Such is the power of the magic Matilda. And to think – her childhood nickname was Mouse.
Earl Ranulf’s desertion drove the king to take counsel with his brother, Bishop Henry. They talked in the Great Hall at Westminster, seated in the same chairs they had occupied at the coronation feast. But this time they were alone, and the long table bore nothing but wine stains and knife marks.
Henry rested his feet on the scarred beam that ran beneath the table. He was shorter than his brother, fuller in the face, thicker around the belly. He was a man of cultivated tastes, and spent much of his enormous income on Italian statuary and on his bestiary, a prized collection of European and African wildlife. His menagerie at Winchester already included a number of lions, leopards, camels, lynxes, the jumping rats known as jerboas, bears and porcupines, and he was awaiting delivery of a pair of ostriches, hopefully male and female.
A superior example of the warrior monk, Henry of Winchester could be by turns charming and ruthless, compassionate and vindictive. If he envied Stephen anything, it was his physique. The king ate like a pig, yet never put on weight, while the bishop starved his body and grew fat.
Now, tapping his heels against the beam, he mused, ‘You ask what you should do about your vanished friends, but you have waited three months before putting the question. My advice changes with time and circumstances. When Fitz Count and Hereford and de Redvers first set themselves against you, I’d have suggested you pursue them with all the force at your disposal. But today I’d say leave them be. You are costing them a considerable fortune, you know. For the past quarter-year they have been locked in their castles, their walls and watch-towers manned day and night. They must have laid in extensive food-stocks, hired extra bowmen, added more horses to their stables, employed spies to report any troop movements in the district, and so on and so forth. It’s a costly business, waiting for war.’
‘Don’t use that term,’ Stephen protested. ‘There’ll be no war. So I’m to starve them out, am I, men who control ten or twenty fiefs, men like Ranulf of Chester, who is second only to me in the extent of his lands?’
Flenry wagged an admonishing finger. ‘With respect, brother king; you are second. The church is the greatest landlord.’
‘Yes, yes, whatever you like. What I am saying is that Ranulf and his kind are too rich to starve. I shall h
ave to wait fifty years before they run short of money.’
‘Surely that is not true of Brien Fitz Count?’
With heartfelt sincerity, Stephen admitted, ‘You are right. He is not wealthy by Ranulf’s standards, and I cannot enjoy watching my closest friend sink into penury. But what else can I do? It’s ridiculous to suppose I would attack him, yet so long as he champions Matilda he is opposed to me.’
Henry put his head back and stared up at the rafters. ‘You think of them as your vanished friends,’ he said. ‘Good enough, so they are, most of them. But what the people see is an exodus of barons and prelates – take William of Canterbury, for one – all streaming out of your court, and arming themselves for war. Yes, I know, you do not like the term. No more do I, but it looms on the horizon. So these are the choices. Attack their castles, an undertaking that will spread your army across most of England. Or leave them be, and wait for the less wealthy among them to empty their purses. Or, and this is what I would advise in the circumstances, show yourself to be magnanimous, as befits a monarch. Let them know you admire their loyalty to Matilda, and grant them what they want.’
‘Which is?’
Which is a firm assurance that you safeguard the throne for her, and will pass on the crown when she requests it.’
Stephen frowned and hunched forward, once more worrying the ends of his moustache. ‘Is that it?’
‘Not quite,’ Henry said. ‘You must also leave for Normandy, to defend your duchy against Matilda’s repeated assaults.’
‘But she isn’t attacking it. Her husband eggs her on, but so far—’
‘Yes, she is,’ the bishop measured, ‘if you say she is. In the same way that she intends to impose a crippling property tax when she becomes queen.’
‘I didn’t know she – Ah, I see. I’m to paint her picture in sombre colours, is that it?’
Henry clicked his tongue, a tutor with a slow-witted pupil. ‘You are painting her to the life, brother, and showing her portrait to the people of this country. A property tax of, say, two hundred pounds a year for every castle, manor, hunting lodge and suchlike will be taken much amiss by Ranulf and his kind. The more they have, the more it will hurt. And as for our poorer barons, like Fitz Count, there is always the invasion of Normandy, the duchy he spent so many years securing under King Henry. You’ll see, my lord king. Their views of Matilda will change markedly when they learn what an avaricious young woman she really is. And, of course, you will attain heroic proportions, by comparison.’
‘Brother bishop—’
‘Yes, my lord?’
‘I hope you and I never fall out.’
‘As do I,’ Henry agreed. ‘Though rather more for your sake than for mine.’
* * *
So it stood, while the rumours were conceived and nurtured and brought to life. They were then circulated by tongue and letter, and the first disaffected barons emerged from their strongholds. The king’s Easter court at Westminster was attended by the majority of those who had deserted his coronation feast, and he welcomed the contrite warlords with open arms. His brother’s scheme was working beautifully. Before long the family would be reunited, standing shoulder to shoulder against their common enemy, the avaricious Angevins.
* * *
At Wallingford, the news took Brien by surprise. He had adopted Alyse’s suggestion and sent Constable Varan to test the wind at Westminster. But he had not expected it to blow so warm for his penitent friends, or so cold for those who still held to their vows.
When the massive, flat-nosed Saxon had growled out his report, delivered on the battlements of the keep, Brien said, ‘You are quite sure about this? They have all been pardoned, all those who went back to the king?’
Varan was no politician, and he did not enjoy playing a role for which he was unsuited. He remained steadfast in his loyalty to Brien and Alyse, and that, for him, was where it began and ended. All this talk of broken vows and reversed decisions was for creatures of the court. But he had been asked a direct question, so he said, ‘Yes, my lord, I’m sure. They have all been confirmed in their lands. Whatever they held under King Henry, they now hold under Stephen. And in some cases they’ve had their grants increased. Miles of Hereford—’
Brien brought his fist crashing down on the crenellated wall. ‘That’s what carries it beyond belief! A man like him! He was the first to follow me from the hall and, in the short time we were together, he made it clear he would never acknowledge Stephen. God see us, we are a sorry bunch!’
He stood in silence for a moment, his hands pressed flat on the sloping merlons. The castle was laid out beneath him, the horseshoe-shaped walls curving towards the river. He looked down into the outer bailey, where Edgiva’s sergeant-lover was putting his sweating, cursing men through their paces. They stood in two lines, each man facing an opponent, the ground between them littered with quarter-staves, horse-collars, lengths of timber, branding-irons, anything that a man might use to defend himself in the event of a surprise attack. And that was the object of the exercise, to snatch and strike when the enemy had invaded the castle and the arrows were expended and the daggers snapped.
On his command, the twin rows hurled themselves forward, reared back, armed with whatever they could find, then set to as they’d been taught; swing and parry, jab and block, go down moaning, then rise up and strike when the adversary relaxes. It was a bloody and brutal game, but it was necessary if the castle was to be defended foot by foot, and the invader made to pay for his aggression.
Brien grunted, satisfied with their efforts. His gaze shifted briefly to the river wall and the gate-tower. Then he raised his eyes until he could see beyond the Thames, beyond the forest, in his imagination beyond the Chiltern Hills to Westminster and through one of the arched windows and along the high table to where Stephen sat, smiling at his prodigal barons.
Behind him, Varan growled, ‘Some of them are still with you, Lord Fitz Count. Robert of Gloucester hasn’t attended court since he came over from Lisieux. And Baldwin de Redvers keeps away.’ In a clumsy effort to cheer his master, he added, ‘That’s just two I know of. Likely there’s more.’
Brien turned from the parapet. He gave a sigh and, without a trace of mockery, echoed, ‘Yes, my well-meant liar, likely there’s more.’
‘There is a final thing,’ Varan said. ‘I have no proof of it, but I heard talk of the court moving to Oxford. That would bring Stephen within a few miles of us. And we know the country.’
‘Christ,’ Brien exclaimed, ‘I hope I’m not reading your thoughts. We will offer him no violence. I want him off the throne, yes, but it must be a voluntary descent. We’ll defend what is our own, but we won’t kill kings, however they get their crown.’
Varan gazed impassively at him. There might have been the hint of a shrug. ‘If there’s any truth in the rumours, he’ll reach Oxford within the week.’
Brien nodded. ‘Not before time. It would be shaming to run short of money even before the enemy arrives.’ He turned away again and let his gaze roam over the ploughed fields and the stretches of grazing land and the twists and turns of the river as it meandered down from Oxford. The spring sunshine warmed his back, and had already darkened his wrists and forearms. It was a fine place to be, Wallingford-on-the-Thames, and he had no wish to be driven from it, or have it confiscated by royal decree. Nor did he wish to prolong his quarrel with Stephen, or inflict upon Alyse the disciplines and restrictions of their present way of life. It would be good to push open the gates and let fresh air blow through the barred and shuttered castle. And it would be good to ride out and assure the townsfolk of Wallingford that the quarrel was over; Stephen loved his friend again, and Fitz Count acknowledged his king. It would be good, but it would not be the truth, not yet. In a week, perhaps, with the help of commonsense and angels.
* * *
It was said that one would know him anywhere by his prominent jaw, and that, if he turned too abruptly, he risked flooring the man at his side. It was
a humorous exaggeration, but no more than that, for the traveller had just completed a one-hundred mile journey through southern England without once being recognised. True, he had travelled incognito, dressed in a hooded cloak and plain tunic, and had driven a light, wicker-sided wagon, for all the world like a common merchant returning from market. But he had done nothing to disguise his face. He was who he was and, if he had passed unnoticed, it was by taking such an unlikely part, not by wrapping his jaw in a scarf.
Even so, he was pleased to have reached the river and the castle without incident. He reined-in beneath the gate, then dismounted, massaging his thighs and buttocks. The wall- guards had watched him from the moment he had turned out of town, and they had alerted the men on the gate. Now one of the garrison called down, ‘What’s your business here?’ and the visitor took two folded letters from his purse, chose one and held it up, as though the guard could reach the fifteen feet between them.
‘I have a message for Lord Fitz Count. He’ll want it.’ With a brief, tired smile he added, ‘It’s safe to open the gates. The cart’s empty, as you can see, and there’s no army crouched beneath.’ He had said much the same thing a dozen times before and knew it would arouse no response.
The guard said, ‘Wait there,’ and after a moment another man emerged through a small Judas gate. He took the preferred letter, unimaginatively echoed, ‘Wait there,’ and went back inside, closing the gate behind him. The visitor yawned and stretched, then gazed at the broad, slow-moving river. Well, he thought, of all of them, Fitz Count has the prettiest place.
* * *
Brien opened the letter, read it, then frowned at the guard. ‘A merchant, did he say?’
‘He didn’t say, my lord, but he’s dressed like one, and he drives a bronette. What else would he be?’
The Villains of the Piece Page 6
